Introduction
Oh, where to begin with my story?
Like I used to say when I thought I was going on an adventure: ‘Here are the life and times of Angie Bardot.’ Even when I had been married for several years, I still referred to myself using my maiden name when I thought there was going to be an interesting time ahead or if I was being me and not trying to play the role of the perfect wife. Being ‘the perfect wife’ was, of course, the absolute true reason for my existence in life—or so I thought for, let’s see, thirty-six years, give or take.
Complicated, you might think, but simple. The monumental mistake on my part was giving up my identity so willingly without even a glimpse of the life I was heading towards—the life that was made for me, by me. I easily became someone else without realising that’s what I was doing. They say love is blind, and that it is. You can’t see clearly or focus on anything other than the life you think you want. And there you have it. The recipe for failure.
Chapter One
Is There Life After?
It took me forever to realise the error of my ways—giving up my identity by simply being someone’s wife. I would say it is too late now for me to restart things, as I am at the end of the trail, most certainly over the hill and on the downward slope, heading to where we all end up.
‘What’s the problem? Just suck it up, princess,’ you might say. Well, the problem is, we can realise things a bit late. And when I say late, I mean very late—incredibly late, too bloody late, ‘what an idiot to stay so long’ late, which then turns into ‘it’s your own fault’ late.
Hmm. My fault. Yes, that’s it—all my fault. That sums up just about everything that went wrong. No need to make excuses for why my marriage failed, or who failed it, when it was my fault. Well, wasn’t it? I tried my best—I gave up me. Surely, that should have been good enough to see me through to the other side of that sloping hill and have company on the downward slide to the end. How is one expected to continue alone to the end of days without the person you sacrificed yourself for? That’s not meant to happen! Surely, neither of you can live without the other.
Well, I’ve got news for you. HELL YES!
Sums it up quite succinctly, don’t you think? No? Let me explain.
These were the words painted in bright red—or it could have been orange, come to think of it, as I may have been seeing red. Anyway, this was the message painted on a little piece of original artwork displayed on my bedside table, to my husband, from ‘Her’.
She is the person who I knew as the girlfriend, and who I will refer to as Her. This artwork was a gift from Her, so proudly displayed as a daily reminder to him of the life with Her that was to come. It was a justification for ridding himself of the life that was—the life with me. The answer to every doubt he may have had, considered, or conceived of, would be answered with just one glance—hell yes covered it entirely.
Should you ditch your long-suffering wife? Hell yes. Should you be deliriously happy without your wife? Hell yes. Should we be fucking like eighteen-year-olds in the bed you used to share with your wife? Hell yes.
Take note: ‘hell yes’ could mean all sorts of things. The mind boggles.
It’s amazing how a little piece of canvas with bright, simple lettering can leave such an indelible mark on your soul. In fact, it is a cheap, slap-in-the-face kind of gift with little thought of a sustainable future. It’s certainly not going to be a masterpiece that will gain in value. It will diminish as time goes on and become something ugly and cheap, depicting the true value of the nasty piece of work that it was. I could be talking about the artwork or Her—it’s the same thing. As I have jumped all over the place in an unstoppable outpouring of what can only be described as verbal diarrhoea, I think you can understand the relevance. Once I began to write down my thoughts, I couldn’t stop the jumble of words that splattered onto the page in a diatribe of frenzied typing. Oh boy, it felt good!
I imagine you are thinking what a complex, unusual, twisted mind I must have. I certainly would not blame you one bit, for I think the same myself (most of the time, anyway). I do have moments of normal behaviour, or at least times when I try to outwardly appear normal. But what is normal?
Who would come out of shit like this and remain normal? No-one! Those of us who have been cheated on require special attention as we continue on, all the while trying to appear as if we are normal, when in fact, we aren’t. So, when I say special attention, I am not being complimentary, as it’s quite the opposite. That kind of special means we need drugs, or for a more refined meaning—medication.
Yes, there you have it. It’s out. I needed something to get me through the day, evening, morning, and mostly every second. Actually, I am normal. I don’t want you to think otherwise. I am not special at all—just a faulty, non-special failure who happens to be the person you are reading about. Or a medicated, faulty, non-special failure. Anyhow, let me begin my story. I will not start from the beginning like most normal people would do with a story to tell.
I am starting at no particular point and letting that become the story. You will just have to follow along. It could be somewhere in the middle—or somewhere in the muddle, more like it. Are you up for the journey? Hell yes!
Chapter Two
A Sense of Humour
Laughter. It’s the only thing you get to keep, and it’s yours to use whenever you need it. It doesn’t change as people do. The sound is the same even when you don’t look like the same person and when you know deep down—or even on the surface—that you are not the same person, but it sounds like the same old you. It can fool almost everyone, which is convenient because then they don’t realise you are actually suicidal. It is interesting how people change, but their laugh doesn’t.
That’s the curious thing about people changing—they sound the same but don’t act the same. It’s like when someone you think you know inside out pipes up and says, ‘I want to be a comedian.’ Now, that’s when you start to laugh. I’m talking about a loud explosion of laughter coming from way down within you, and poof! It spills out and won’t stop. Then you notice you’re the only one laughing. Oh, it’s not a joke! He’s not trying to be funny to make me laugh? Oh, oops, sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh at you. A comedian, did you say? Yes, well, okay then. What made you decide on a career change at fifty-eight? I didn’t see that one coming.
I have often bravely supported other ideas along the way, but I have to say this one threw me. And right then and there, I began the slow slide downwards into the realisation that I didn’t know him anymore. Who was he? Was I really married to this person, the comedian? Suddenly, there was a difference between my perception of my partner and who they truly were. The person I knew was the previous version. This new person, the one looking back at me with an expression on their face, wondering why they would even need to justify their reasoning for wanting to be a comedian, was a stranger.
Oh, it’s me, isn’t it? Because I am so unsupportive. I promised myself I would be an understanding wife. I would go easy on him—mainly due to the fact I thought he had a brain tumour. Yes, for a long time, I had been worried sick that there was something drastically wrong with him. He had been showing signs of lethargy, forgetfulness, inattention, and mood swings. He was acting like a seventy-eight-year-old decrepit shell of the man he used to be. Did I mention the headaches? Very concerning.
I like to self-diagnose and then google the symptoms to confirm my suspicions are correct, which of course they are. But as it turned out, on this occasion, he didn’t have a brain tumour after all. Dr Angie Bardot was wrong.
In short, he was lethargic, but in a non-tumour kind of way. As it turned out, he was exhausting his energy thinking of comedy routines, forgetful because he wanted to forget me, and inattentive for the same reason. I was the cause of all his symptoms, except the headaches. That was caused by taking Viagra. Need I go into more detail? Well, I probably will. Let’s get back to talking about laughter.
My daughter says I am funny and that I can laugh off anything—and have—no matter how bad things get. She thinks I’m laughing. I look like I’m laughing. The noise comes out, and my mouth moves. Even my body shakes a bit with every chortle. I admit, it appears as if I am laughing. I like people to think I am laughing along with them. ‘Them’ refers to anyone except me (but not Her). I have a very loud laugh and a lot of ‘them’ to share it with.
Once upon a time, I was sitting in a movie theatre laughing when I heard a voice in the dark calling to me. It was an old school chum who recognised my laugh. That was long ago. I have fond memories of my laugh—the true one, not the one I pretend with and use as my stand-in. You’ve heard of a proxy vote, haven’t you? Well, this is a proxy note. A high-pitched squeal and a very poor substitute for the real thing. But who would know?
I start with a small snicker and then work up to a belly roll laugh. That’s when everything vibrates around your midriff, and there’s no hiding that when it happens! It could be described as a mini tidal wave with a flow-on effect; the snicker turns into so much more than when it began. It’s raucous, uncontrolled, and infectious. Cause and effect—everybody’s laughing; I have the desired result. Everyone’s happy except me.
A laugh is always ready to come out. It sits at the back of the throat, waiting for a turn. I realised this during my journey of rediscovery. Only when you laugh—and I mean truly laugh freely and without pretence, without remembering, without thinking of yourself as the medicated, faulty, non-special failure with the fake laugh while you are genuinely laughing— then, and only then, can you turn the page and move on to the next chapter.
Chapter Three
The Discovery
I thought he was acting odd. I would stare into his eyes and see the blank, empty stare of a person who was somewhere far away. I wondered, at first, if he could be imagining a desert island with palm trees, blue crystal water, and the puffy cloud-like sky that you just want to soak up the sun under while gazing admiringly at your beautiful wife—at me—in her bikini. Yes, I thought, it was something like that. We hadn’t been on a holiday for ages, and at times I found myself daydreaming. I’ll surprise him with a holiday for just the two of us, I thought. I’ll be sure to book something nice where I won’t even have to wear a bikini. Oooh, that will give him something to daydream about! His sixtieth was rolling around fast, only a few months away. Oh, how nice. A surprise. Something romantic.
I happened to come into the room unexpectedly. I must have taken his breath away because he jumped a little like he was surprised to see me. So surprised, he dropped his phone. I was pleased I could still have that effect on him; I used to blush when he winked at me. He could make me go all girly. It was a hint of a wink, only for me. Special, just between the two of us. He could do that wink from across the room without anyone else seeing, but it would be enough to make me feel flushed. But then my old woman’s intuition kicked in. Damn it. I liked the first scenario much better and wished I wasn’t so smart and all-knowing. But I knew. In that instant, I knew. He was up to mischief.
I stayed up later than him that night because, naturally, I wanted to check his phone. Doesn’t every woman want to check from time to time to see what they are up to? Isn’t it a God-given right to do so? Well, I waited a reasonable amount of time before rummaging. Not on the charger? Where could it be? So, I had to go looking. It was in his jeans pocket, turned off. My suspicions were immediately confirmed.
Do I have to go into details? Please no. Some things are private (and they were certainly texting about their private parts). Well, it was enough to make me feel sick and want to vomit—so I did. Luckily, I got to the toilet in time or there would have been another mess to clean up. Although, it would have been much easier to clean than the other mess I was in.
Oh, all right, I will give you a snippet of what I saw. Of course, I remember every word I read, but it will be too upsetting for you—as I hope, by now, you have developed some empathy for me—and I don’t want to upset you. Once you have read something like this, you can’t unread it. It stays in your head. I hope you’re up for it.
She talked about her white satin nightie, and he responded with, ‘I love you so much, you are all I think about from the moment I wake till the last thing I think of at night.’ I can’t tell you anymore. It’s smutty, but the hard part for me was seeing him use the word ‘love’ for someone else. Wow! That was quick work—falling in love with another woman after only eight weeks of sexting. Of course, in the old days, you courted and saw each other face-to-face, and maybe after eight weeks, you could reach a decision about whether or not you were falling in love. But the electronic age we now live in allows you to fall in love via text! I just couldn’t come to terms with this fact. How could he say he loved somebody else?
He had told me how much he loved me and brought me flowers—roses—just the day before. That made it worse! What was a girl to do? (Well, a rather older version of a girl.) I wanted to kill him.
As my grandson was staying the night, I couldn’t set a bad example, which was lucky for hubby, who otherwise would have been dead by morning. I am a responsible person and take my position as a role model seriously. I was forced to consider how a five-year-old might react to finding his Poppa bludgeoned to death with the bedside lamp embedded into his head. After giving it full consideration, I thought better of it. It was the perfect tool for bludgeoning, though, as it had a very heavy, thick, solid base—the lamp, not my husband. Well, the lamp was not designed with that in mind. These were not normal circumstances, though, so with a bit of imagination, or without thinking at all, one could, in a fit of rage, do it. Someone like me, perhaps, after reading text messages from him to Her and Her to him, might smash his snoring head in.
But I didn’t! I am more responsible and caring than that. I am a nice person. Let’s not forget, I used to be sweet and lovable before my snooping led me to behave in a ‘not myself ’ manner. I felt horrible because I knew I no longer mattered. Circumstances can sometimes bring out the worst in even the most loving people, but I mattered to my beautiful grandson, and I wasn’t going to have him scarred for life from seeing a gory, bloody mess.
Chapter Four
New Beginning
While I was waiting for Roxanne to collect the little one, I phoned a hotel and made a reservation.
I felt sick to my stomach as reality hit. The person on the other end of the phone couldn’t understand why I was whispering my payment details and required info. I hadn’t confronted him or mentioned my discovery. He would find out soon enough that I knew. The waiting to leave felt far worse than when I did leave. I didn’t cry—not at first. I held myself in high esteem and quietly walked out the door. He didn’t notice; however, I had written a letter suggesting he relocate to the love nest and left it next to his phone charger—otherwise, who knows how long it would have taken before he realised I wasn’t there and why.
He was sitting outside playing backgammon on the iPad as usual.
